by Laurie Cass
The other five board members were strung down along the sides of the table, with no empty chairs between them, making the end closest to me completely vacant. Which was strange, because Stephen usually sat on the end opposite Otis, and the empty chairs were usually randomly spaced.
As I looked at the formal seating arrangement, I got a very bad feeling. “Good morning,” I said.
Instead of the smiles and “Good Morning, Minnie” greetings that I normally got in return, I received a series of solemn nods, going from left to right around the table like a tiny library board version of the wave.
“Please take a seat,” Otis said, indicating the chair at the opposite end of the table from him.
I didn’t want to sit there. I would much rather have sat next to Linda Kopecky, retired high-school English teacher and avid reader of suspense novels, but I followed instructions and pulled out the chair.
Never before had I noticed what a nasty noise the casters made on the thick carpet. It was a soft, squishy noise as horrible in its own way as fingernails on a chalkboard. I sat, grabbed the table’s edge to pull myself forward, since my feet didn’t quite touch the floor, and folded my hands on the table, making me the ninth person in the room who was doing that.
I kept a pleasant expression stuck on my face, trying to appear the embodiment of the cooperative assistant director. The others shifted, looked at each other, looked at Otis, looked at Stephen, looked at their hands.
My feeling slid from Kind of Bad to Uh-Oh, This Is Going to Be Really Bad.
Stephen broke the silence. “Minerva, you know that the board is well aware of the incident that took place on the bookmobile the Saturday before last.”
My first instinct was to correct him—the incident, as he was putting it so delicately, had not taken place on the bookmobile. It had happened nearby. But I kept quiet and didn’t nod. I kept my gaze calm and steady. And, since he hadn’t posed a question, I didn’t say anything.
There was a short pause. When I continued to keep quiet, he went on. “As I told you earlier, Tammy Shelburt, sister to Roger Slade, is bringing suit against the library for negligence.”
“She’s hired one of the most aggressive law firms in the region,” Bruce Medler said. “They have an extremely high rate of success.”
I looked at him. Bruce was one of those guys with hair so short, he might as well have been bald. We regularly tried to top each other with bad puns, but just now I didn’t feel like telling him that writing with a broken pencil was pointless. And again, since there was no question, I remained silent.
“We’ve spoken to the library’s attorney,” Otis said gravely. “One of his recommendations to strengthen the library’s case is to accept your resignation.”
My skin suddenly felt a size too small for my body. There had to be something I could say to convince them that the advice of their attorney was absurd, but I couldn’t come up with a single thing.
Stephen cleared his throat. “I’ve told the board that the library will not function properly without an assistant director. The position is essential to operations. The board, however, has not yet taken a vote. This is why I called you upstairs.”
To what—speak in my own defense? I looked around the table. If eye contact, or lack of it, was an indication of how they’d vote, my chances were about fifty-fifty. I was starting to get an inkling of what sacrificial lambs might have felt like.
Sondra, the vice president, leaned forward. “Another of the attorney’s recommendations to strengthen the library’s case is the suspension of bookmobile operations until the matter is settled.”
I shot to my feet. “No!” As soon as I stood, I knew I’d made a mistake; strong emotions weren’t allowed in the boardroom—the wood paneling was supposed to keep them all out. Plus, I was presumed to be a reasonable and rational adult. Leaping out of my chair didn’t exactly paint a picture of a reliable assistant director. But it was too late. I was up and needed to make the best of things.
Laying my palms flat on the table, I took in a deep breath and released it. I’d been taught the technique at my self-defense classes and felt my brain click into gear. Which was good, because in many ways, this was self-defense. I was under attack, the bookmobile was under attack, and I needed to be smarter than I’d ever been.
I studied each of their faces, then said, “It speaks well of this board that there is concern regarding the tragic events that led to Roger Slade’s death.”
Heads nodded, and I nodded back, feeling like a bobble-head doll that wasn’t quite in tune with its fellows.
“The sheriff’s office and I have had multiple conversations,” I went on, “and they feel that they’re close to making an arrest.” Of what I felt had to be the wrong person, but now wasn’t the time to get into that.
“A careless hunter,” Bruce said solemnly.
“They couldn’t tell me.” I looked around the table. “But there was a discussion regarding the possibility of murder.”
A collective intake of breath stole most of the air from the room. Clearly, no one had once thought that Roger’s death could have been anything except an accident. Interesting.
“But,” I said, “there is no reason to punish the bookmobile for any of this. In the days since Roger died, bookmobile attendance hasn’t decreased and no one has called to cancel a stop. Matter of fact, I’ve had a request for an additional stop.”
I stood as straight and tall as I could, which wasn’t very, but since I was the only one standing, it worked out. “Garaging the bookmobile would deprive our patrons, the people who might need us the most, of access to everything that we offer.”
Spreading my arms wide, I gestured at the entire library, at the entire world. “Our mission statement is to provide materials and services to the entire community, not just the people who have the wherewithal to make it to this building.” I let my arms fall to my sides, hanging my head just a little. “Keeping our patrons from harm is, without doubt, the most important thing. But please think about how much harm it could do to deprive them of books.”
I sat down, already wishing I’d said something different. Of course, I couldn’t remember ever getting to use the word “wherewithal” in a sentence, written or spoken, so that was a tiny bonus.
At the other end of the table, the board members and Stephen had a short, whispered conversation. Otis looked down the length of the dark wood. “Minnie, thank you for your time. We’ll let you know when we make a decision.”
* * *
I walked back downstairs, my feet making Eddie-sized thumps on the steps. There was no way I was going to be able to get any work done until I heard from the board, so I grabbed the new ABOS coffee mug I’d picked up at the last Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services conference and headed to the break room. If the next day hadn’t been Thanksgiving, I would have pawed through my desk drawer for change enough to get some chocolate from the vending machine, but maybe coffee would suffice.
Holly was on her way out of the room, but she took one look at my face and backed up. “Are you okay? No, you’re not. I can see that something horrible has happened. Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee—don’t worry, I didn’t let Kelsey make it this morning—and you can tell Aunt Holly all about it. Oh, and take a brownie. Josh’s mom dropped them off.”
I let Aunt Holly take charge, not even objecting when she cut off a huge slab of brownie and put it on a napkin in front of me. “Eat,” she commanded. “Then talk.”
Three bites later, I started to feel a little less shell-shocked. Two more and I was almost ready to talk. We adjourned to my office so I could be close to my phone, and I told her what had happened upstairs. Well, except the part where I might be forced to resign.
Holly objected in all the right places. “Are they nuts?” she asked, her face a little pink. “The bookmobile is the best thing that’s ever happened to this
library! Sure, this new building is awesome and everything, but has it changed anyone’s life? People who come here were already coming to the library, maybe a few more, but not like the bookmobile. Did you tell them how many new library-card forms you’ve completed out there?”
I smiled. “You should have talked to the board instead of me.”
She shook her head rapidly. “No way. I freeze up something silly if I have to speak in public.”
“The board meetings aren’t like that,” I said. “It’s just a bunch of people sitting around a table.”
“And all of them staring at you when you say something. I’ll pass, thanks.” She gave a mock shudder. “But, hey, I wanted to tell you that I had to give up on Facebook.”
Facebook? Why . . . ? Then I remembered. My concerns that Stephen had learned about Eddie felt long ago and far away.
“No matter who or what group I tracked,” she said, “I couldn’t find anyone who would have liked the same collection of groups Stephen would. So either he’s being smarter about this than I would have guessed, or he’s just not on Facebook.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said.
“Maybe, maybe not.” She pursed her lips. “The way I figure it, he’s got to be out there somewhere. Lurking. Spying on us. That’s the way he is, right? So he’s there, taking notes. I just have to figure out where he is. Twitter might be more his thing.”
“Or,” I offered, “he might not be on social media at all.”
Holly shook her head. “No, I don’t see it. It’s too big of a chance for him to gather up information.”
She was making him sound like a grand spymaster. Stephen had his quirks, and it wouldn’t hurt him to attend a few workshops on playing well with others, but he was an excellent library director, and I was starting to feel a little sneaky for, well, sneaking around about him.
“Thanks for doing this, Holly,” I said, “but I don’t want to take up so much of your time. If Stephen knows about Eddie, there isn’t much I can do about it until he decides to tell me.” Of course, if the board was going to fire me or keep the bookmobile from running, Stephen wouldn’t have to do anything.
I sighed.
Holly, who was a mother and therefore had that supermom sense for noticing the slightest mood anomalies, gave me an empathetic glance. “Yeah, I know. You’re worried about what the board is going to say. When they call, let me know, okay?”
My phone rang. For two full rings, I just stared at it. My insides felt tingly and my head felt two sizes too small. When the third ring started, I snatched up the receiver. “Minnie Hamilton,” I said. “How may I help you?”
“The board has made a decision,” Stephen said.
My mouth’s dryness was immediate and absolute. There was no way I was going to be able to say a word until I got some fluid into it. I scrabbled for my coffee mug and took a long gulp. “What did they say?”
“They chose not to take a vote on requesting your resignation, at least for the time being.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “What about the bookmobile?”
He let out a sharp breath. “Your point about the possibility of murder pushed that discussion in a completely new direction. The board now feels that if Roger Slade was, in fact, murdered, the library cannot be seen as negligent. We had a short conference call with the library’s attorney, and while he isn’t in complete agreement, he did agree that the case against the library would be weaker if murder could be proved.”
“So, I can keep the bookmobile on the road?”
Stephen barked out something that might have been a laugh. “Is that all you care about—the bookmobile?”
I wanted to say that I cared about a lot of things—world peace, finding a clean source of energy, and discovering a way to walk in the rain without getting mud splatters on my pants—but I was pretty sure Stephen’s question was rhetorical.
“The case will first appear in court the second Wednesday in December,” Stephen said. “How they got it on the docket so soon, I don’t know, but they did. If you care so much about the bookmobile, you’d better solve this situation before then.” He banged the phone down.
Slowly, I returned my own receiver back to its cradle.
“What?” Holly demanded. “What did they say?”
The small tent calendar on my desk was on November. I flipped it over to December and counted the days until the second Wednesday of the month. “Two weeks,” I murmured. “I have two weeks.”
“For what?”
I looked at her, looked at the calendar, then looked back at her. There was only one real answer to her question. “To figure out who killed Roger Slade.”
* * *
Thanksgiving came and went with a flurry of cooking (Aunt Frances), a massive amount of dishwashing (me), and a stunning show of eating ability on the part of everyone who came for dinner.
Our ten guests included two former boarders who were now married to each other, an elderly couple that Aunt Frances and her long-dead husband had been friends with, a husband and wife and their two children from one street over, and two strays.
My stray was the widowed Lloyd Goodwin, one of my favorite library patrons, whose children couldn’t make the trip north this year, and Aunt Frances had invited a man whose name I never did get right. It was Brett, Brent, or Brant, and since he seemed to answer to any of the three, I gave up figuring it out before dinner was ready.
“Where did your stray come from?” I asked Aunt Frances when I popped into the kitchen to check on turkey timing. “He’s hot, for an older guy.”
And he was, in a white-haired, sturdy-shouldered sort of way. He was also a bit on the pompous side, but since he’d laughed at my jokes, I was trying to forgive that.
“Hardware store,” my aunt said. “He kindly helped me see the difference between wood screws and metal screws.”
I laughed. “And that turned into an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Minnie,” my aunt said severely. “No one should have to eat Thanksgiving dinner alone.”
An undeniable fact. I grinned at her. “You’re a nice person. Did you know?”
“The salt of the earth. Now get out of my kitchen unless you want to carve the turkey.”
I couldn’t think of much I wanted to do less, so I skedaddled back to our guests until I was summoned for plating duty. At first, Eddie stayed on the stairs, observing through cautious eyes, but he eventually came down to join the fun and shed on everyone that he could.
The rest of the afternoon and evening zoomed past with good food and fine friendship, and I tumbled into bed glad to have been able to forget the library board’s dictate, at least for a day.
The next morning I wasn’t scheduled to work until afternoon. Tucker had just come off the night shift and finally had some free time, so he picked me up and took me to the Round Table for breakfast, which I hoped would be a place free of cat allergens.
Sabrina, the diner’s waitress extraordinaire, sat us in a booth, gave us menus, and poured coffee. “Her,” she said, nodding at me. “She’ll want cinnamon French toast with real maple syrup and sausage links. What’ll you have?”
Tucker opted for coffee and a look at the menu.
“Gotcha.” Sabrina wrote down the order and started to tuck her pencil into her bun of graying brown hair.
“Hey!” I pointed to one particular finger on her left hand. “Is that what I think it is?”
The cool, collected, and seen-everything-at-least-once-and-probably-twice Sabrina blushed. “No one else has noticed,” she said.
We both looked to the back of the restaurant, where Bill D’Arcy sat hunched over a computer, as per usual. But there was one difference. His left hand, which was busy with typing away at the financial transactions that made him scads of money, caught the restaurant’s light and displayed a shiny wide gold band on hi
s ring finger.
“Had all the paperwork set,” she said. “We were at my sister’s for dinner yesterday, and the only thing I had to do was make sure the minister showed up at halftime.”
I laughed, and Tucker congratulated her.
“Thanks, hon,” she said, beaming. “Now, how long do you think it’ll take me to get rid of those awful brown curtains he has?”
Fifteen minutes was my guess, which pleased her, and she headed off with a smile on her face.
Tucker was giving me a quizzical look. “What?” I asked.
“Just now,” he said. “That’s the first time you laughed since I picked you up. You usually laugh a lot more often. Is something wrong?”
His expression of caring concern made my throat close up tight. I swallowed some coffee to loosen it up, then said, “The library board met yesterday. I was called upstairs half an hour after they started.” My throat felt weird again, so I preempted its closing by sipping more coffee. When in doubt, add caffeine.
“What did they want?” Tucker asked. “Is there some problem?”
“The board is worried about a negligence lawsuit.” I swallowed again. “Some of them think they might have a better case if they fire their assistant dir—”
A man walked past and a slight breeze blew over my arm and lifted a cat hair off my sleeve. The black-and-white piece of former Eddie wafted up into the air, where it turned lazily about, as if it were searching for the perfect new home.
“Umm . . .” Tucker flattened himself against the back of the booth.
The breeze faded as quickly as it had come, and the hair dropped like a rock, heading straight for my boyfriend’s lap. Sliding fast, Tucker zipped to the booth’s far end, and the Eddie hair fell to the floor.
“Safe,” I said, smiling. But there was no answering grin on Tucker’s face. On the contrary, he was frowning in the direction of the stray hair. “And this,” I said, “was supposed to be a cat hair–free zone. It’s this fleecy material.” I poked at my sleeve. “It’s a pet-hair magnet. I promise I’ll never wear anything like this around you again.”
